Better. “What are they now?”
She lifts her chin, and her brown hair falls further out of her messy pony. “I intend to look my best.”
“For what purpose?”
Maria smiles in her mug like she’s witnessed this back-and-forth before. Rose and I challenge our children to think about their actions, and I’d much rather broaden their minds than send them stomping to their rooms.
“With the purpose of…” Deviousness twinkles in Jane’s eyes, and she says, “Love.”
I’m not entirely surprised, but the word tenses my shoulders by just a fraction, which is far more than usual. “Love,” I repeat, letting her response sink in. I feel my jaw clench.
Maria cups her mug. “Do you have an eye on a boy, Jane? Or maybe a girl?”
“I’m not attracted to girls in that way, but I appreciate the inclusion, Maria.” Jane picks up her mug and they clink theirs together.
Ryke always talks about not being ready to watch his daughters grow up, and like most aspects between us, we differ on certain levels. I want to see who my children will grow to become. I just can’t fathom the idea of my sons or daughters being manipulated by another person or being hurt by their own choices—when I can’t and won’t choose for them.
It’s a possibility that Jane will date a boy that I find inferior to her. It might even be inevitable, especially if she’s choosing to wear a dress just to attract someone else. In this regard, I’d rather all my children stay young forever. I’d rather dream up an impossibility than meet a worse reality. One that I can’t control. One that I can’t truly change. I just have to wait and watch.
Remember love.
I love my children like extensions of myself, so seeing them fumble is like seeing myself fumble. But there is also power in love.
Every day, I remember.
“So you intend to look your best for the purpose of love.” I lean against the armrest of the couch. “Is love a specific person?”
Jane sets her mug back on the mantel. “Oui.” Yes.
Maria guesses, “Is it Ian Eastwick?” The boy who drew a penis on the back of Jane’s math notebook.
My muscles start to strain. My eyes start to reflexively narrow. I arch another brow when Jane catches sight of my displeasure.
“No, it’s not Ian Eastwick,” Jane says and then she smiles at me. As though she’s constructed a riddle that I can’t solve.
In less than a second, I know. “Love is you.”
Jane grins and claps quickly. “Well done.” To Maria, she says, “I wish to dress my best because of the love I have for myself. Not for a boy, but for me.” She fans out the draped fabric on her sleeves. “If I never fall in love, I wouldn’t bat an eye.”
I’m most surprised by this conclusion.
“And why is that?” I ask.
“Because I’m full of the love I have for my siblings, the love that I have for you, for Mom, for myself and the love you all give me in return. I won’t spend my life agonizing over the idea of falling in love. I don’t need it any more than I need an appendix.”
I had no siblings to love and no parents who supplied love. Her upbringing vastly contrasts mine. Love surrounds her, and I see that she embraces it fully. Except for the idea of love from a significant other, as if love is quantifiable and she has hit her maximum threshold.
In one breath, I am proud of her independence and the fact that her mode of thinking will save her from immense heartache. In another, I can only hope that she’s open to love if it comes. When it appeared in my life, it was a struggle to accept it, to hold it, to return it.
Jane is not me, and I see that she could be someone far better.
My grin is nothing but earnest. “Mon cœur,” I murmur. My heart.
Jane touches her heart, expressing the same sentiment. “Did I surprise you?” she wonders.
“Marginally.”
She brightens, knowing that’s more surprised than I usually am.
“Speaking of surprises.” I straighten up as I hear Rose’s heels against the hardwood. She passes beneath the archway with a garment on a hanger, jewelry box also in hand. Inside, I know, are Cobalt Diamonds in the form of two glittering bracelets.
Jane’s mouth falls at the hung garment. “What is that?” Then tears fill her eyes. “Mom?” Her hands fly to her lips.
Rose holds a pastel blue tulle skirt and a sweater with thousands of hand-stitched sequins that create a cheetah-print. In her other hand, she has chunky cheetah-sequined heels with pastel pink buckles.
Rose made everything for Jane.
“Did you know?” Jane asks Maria.
Maria smiles. “What can I say? I’m the best secret-keeper.”
Not better than me.
Jane reaches for the tulle skirt, and Rose brushes away our daughter’s tears with an affectionate hand. Very quietly, Rose tells both girls, “Never sacrifice your personal style. Don’t be anyone but you.”
Jane sniffs and hugs the heels that Rose gives her. “I won’t.” She whispers a few tender endearments in French.
Rose swings her head to me. I read the accomplishment in her gaze: it worked.
I knew it would.
Last night, Rose talked about what would happen if Jane wore the red gown. I believed the event would never come to pass. Jane would always wear something else. So in bed, not even five minutes after Rose came down from an orgasm, her mind rerouted to this, “I’ll bring sheers with me on the red carpet. I will stab the motherfucking people who start sexualizing her.”
She’s eleven, and we both know the concept of women in media is much different than men in media. We’re all living, breathing proof.
“She won’t wear that dress,” I reminded Rose for the tenth time. “I’ll also schedule you an appointment with an otolaryngologist.”
Rose glared. “I can hear you. I just don’t think the same as you.”
“You don’t think that I’d convince her to wear something else? Or in the very least, that you’d convince her?”
Rose bristled at my tone, about to roll on her side away from me.
I clasped her arm, still hovered over her body. “Rose.”
She froze and then rose on her elbows as though to say, I’m just as everything as you are. “Would you bathe in pig’s blood for me?”
“Yes.”
“For them?”
“Yes.” I never hesitated.
Her doubt towards herself and me flitted away.
I’d do anything to ensure the safety and well-being of my family. Including, at the very last effort, physically barring my daughter from leaving the house in that dress.
The reason why I’m so much better than everyone else:
To win, I only ever need words.
[ 54 ]
March 2027
The Cobalt Estate
Philadelphia
ROSE COBALT
I zip around Ben’s bedroom that’s decorated with finger-paint artwork: handprints directly on the walls. We gave him the ColorPalace paint, but we didn’t give him the idea to forgo paper and canvas. That is all Ben.
We told him if he ever wants to change his walls in the future, he’ll have to paint over the sloppy artwork he created. I made sure to use words like daunting and long hours and aching work.
Ben smiled and said, “Cool.”
Now I hurry around his bedroom in search of a fucking bird. “Pip-Squeak,” I say seriously, “do not do this to me, not during his birthday party.” I find myself cleaning up as I move, fluffing his blue pillows and organizing the crayons on his desk.
I reconvene by standing in the center of the bedroom and raise my finger. “We’re on the same team Pip-Squeak. Come.”
Nothing.
I growl. “Lady Macbeth, if you ate this bird during his birthday party, I will kill you.” Don’t think about it, Rose.
The gray cockatiel, bright orange patches on his cheeks, has been in our family for over two years. In that time, he’s learned to sing the The A
dams Family theme song from Eliot and Tom, survived a playful black cat named Lady Macbeth, and bonded with his owner who’s turning five on Monday.
Since Winona turned three on Wednesday, Ben offered to do a joint pirate-themed party for Saturday. Growing up, I balked at the idea of sharing my birthday with anyone. It was the one day that I never had to share.
Ben was adamant about a joint party.
Today is Saturday.
Children have already invaded my backyard and the street like locusts. He invited his whole grade. Endless chatter and commotion travel into the empty house. We don’t let anyone inside, not even to pee.
There are port-a-potties on the street.
I’m not risking anything missing from my children’s bedrooms and put on eBay. Or pictures taken of their closets, just to be sold to Celebrity Crush. Their school friends can piss in a high-quality rented toilet. Some are wearing diapers, so they can shit in those.
“Mom, did you find him…?” Beckett trails off, noticing my finger raised without a bird perched on the tip. I’ve already tried waving around bird treats. Pip-Squeak can’t be bribed. I respect his loyalty.